


Aquamarine

by FawkesFire13



Category: Midnight Poppy Land (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25224142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FawkesFire13/pseuds/FawkesFire13
Summary: Quincey thinks back on the events that shaped his childhood.
Relationships: Tora/Poppy Wilkes
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	Aquamarine

**Author's Note:**

> This story popped into my head late last night, unexpected and mostly formed already. I wrote it down on my phone and spent some time thinking it over. It’s not funny, but I think it gives Quincey some depth of character.
> 
> A shout out and thank you to my ladies in the MPL RAMBLING chat. You guys give me LIFE. 
> 
> As always, all characters belong to Lilydusk.

The text was short and threatening. 

“Come to my office. There is a car waiting for you. Business.” 

Quincey frowned and closed his journal. His father was such a dramatic asshole sometimes. More than sometimes. He had been drinking wine and trying to have a quiet night. Apparently Vincent wanted to drag him into some ridiculous clan drama. Standing and rolling his eyes he walked into his room to change into something more “appropriate.” A somber suit, devoid of the normal colors he preferred. Vincent didn’t enjoy color, Quincey reflected as he slicked his hair back a bit and checked his appearance. Charcoal gray did look good on him, but it was missing some sparkle. A touch of deep purple would have made this suit look spectacular. Ah well, he played the part of “dutiful son” plenty of times. He could do it again. 

The black town car was waiting for him downstairs and he slipped inside silently. The driver didn’t wait for instructions. He knew where to take his passenger. Quincey took a moment to collect his thoughts. Vincent has been a bit more....unstable lately. Rambling on about some rat infestation or other. Clubs being subject to more health inspections. Whatever. It bored Quincey to tears. He ignored most of the clan business, only rolling his eyes when Tora had insisted he be careful. That a war was brewing. Vincent should take a vacation. Get some sun. It wasn’t like the Crime Lord didn’t have vacation homes sprinkled from one side of the continent to the other. 

Come to think of it, the man hadn’t really used them much since Quincey’s mother had been alive. A two level house near the coast. A hunting lodge in the mountains. A townhouse in a affluent neighborhood. All dwellings designed to show off the Balthuman wealth. Watching the lights go by in the darkness, Quincey frowned. His mother. He missed her on nights like tonight. She had been a beautiful lady. Quincey had retained her aquamarine eyes and pale complexion. Even her smile.

On nights like this one, when Vincent was in a dangerous mood, his mother would always shield him. She was tall, he remembered. Wavy blonde hair and a quiet grace, with sad eyes framed in long lashes. When Quincey was young his mother would lead him away from Vincent’s rage and bring him to his room and sit with him.

He remembered her voice as she read him stories. He was fairly certain that was where his interest in writing came from. She had a gift for making different characters with her voices. Daring knights, princesses, dragons, evil kings and magicians. Every character was important to her.

Sometimes she would even make up her own stories. His favorites were about adventures and puzzles being solved. About happy endings for the heroes. His mom would smile, happy she could make him laugh.

Quincey stared up at his father’s compound, annoyed he had to be here. He hated this place. It was gloomy. A gilded lair designed to intimidate. Maybe he had retained his theatrics from Vincent. 

The driver pulled up smoothly to the front and quickly got out to open his door. Quincey got out and yawned. This had better be good. The two men on security duty at the front nodded at him and opened the door leading into the main hall. No doubt there were more men stationed across the grounds. Vincent was such a fucking diva, with his gaudy interior decorations. Gold gilded everything. Honestly.....

He stepped onto the marble floor and looked around letting his eyes adjust, a servant hurrying forward and handing him a bottle of sparkling mineral water. He nodded thanks and looked around. Dark wood, red velvet, gold everywhere. Vincent fancied himself a king.

He spotted a singular lamp, silver with jade inlays on the spindly ornate table under a enormous mirror. Hmm. He looked at it carefully. A single inlay was missing, but obviously Vincent had considered it too valuable to simply throw away. Custom made, delicate. He hadn’t expected to see this lamp here. His mother had given it to Vincent to keep on his desk. A wedding gift. 

Quincey looked at his reflection in the mirror. Yes. He had certainly grown into his mother’s son. Her name was Diana. She had married Vincent when she was young. A daughter from a former rival clan. Their marriage had given Vincent what he desired most.

Power.

Contrary to popular belief, Diana had not been forced to marry Vincent. No. He was too clever. A forced marriage held no weight. No true bond meant no real loyalty. Anyone could force a pair of people to marry with the right encouragement. A gun to each temple normally worked very well. But Vincent was smarter than that, Quincey had to admit.

No, by all accounts Vincent had wooed Diana properly. He could be very charming when he wanted to be. Vincent had used that to convince Diana he loved her. Maybe it was her youth, Quincey reflected. Or maybe.....maybe she had really loved him. Thought she loved him. Quincey had never asked what she had felt in those early years, but then, he was really young at the time. Only 10. 

He sipped the water thoughtfully. Yes, Diana had been young. Maybe about 24 when she married Vincent, who at the time was 35. Naive. Innocent. Well, as innocent as one could be when your family was a mafia family. Sheltered may have been a better word. No doubt Vincent looked like a Prince Charming to a young lady her family kept cloistered away. 

Vincent wanted to climb to the top of all the clans, and he was ruthless. Diana’s connections made that climb smoother, and Vincent always rewarded her. Designer clothes, cars, collars of diamonds that hung heavily on her neck. 

Quincey touched the lamp thoughtfully, his finger grazing over the missing inlay, he turned and walked up the staircase, his shoes making a soft clicking sound as he ascended. He thought back to the time he had stood at the top of these stairs looking down one night, fearful of the storm outside. The thunder and lighting drove him from his bed and into the night seeking his mother’s arms. Never to his father. He had made that mistake once, Vincent had laughed and told him to be a man, ignoring the frightened tears spilling from young Quincey’s eyes. No, that night he had went seeking his mother on the staircase. 

He had looked down at his mother, wrapped tightly in the arms of another man who wasn’t his father. Quincey had been silent, even as a child knowing to observe before speaking. His mother had looked....happy? She never smiled like that when Vincent held her hand. The man had seen him first, his brown eyes opening fearfully and he had whispered hurriedly to Diana who turned quickly and saw Quincey standing there silently, holding his stuffed panda bear.

“Quincey, sweetie. What’s wrong?” She had asked, taking the steps two at a time to reach him, the man had vanished quickly. Quincey knew who he was. One of his father’s men. Security. The man had watched Quincey play in the yard, or was nearby when he and his mom went swimming. 

“I couldn’t sleep. It’s scary.” Quincey had answered truthfully. Diana had smiled and scooped Quincey up. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes glittering bright. 

“Oh my sweet sweet baby.” She said, kissing his cheek. “What have I told you about the thunder?” Quincey frowned a little. 

“It’s just two dragons wrestling?”

“Exactly! And do dragons bother us?” She asked, walking back to his room with him. 

“No. They protect us.” Quincey answered confidently. 

“That’s my brave son.” She laughed and kissed his nose. “My bravest hero.” He could feel her soft hugs, she smelled of clean linen and roses.

Quincey paused on the top of the stairs and looked down. Diana had put him to bed that night and told him a story about a cursed knight who needed a princess to break the spell on him. He sighed softly and walked down the corridor that gleamed with gold. Stolen luxury. His old childhood room was the second door on the left. He opened that door and peered into the darkness, then felt for the light switch. It was mostly untouched from all those years ago. 

He took a step inside and looked around. His model airplanes still hung from the ceiling. Old books dusty on the shelves. He chose one at random and frowned. Touching the creased and broken spine of the book he closed his eyes. He had been reading this book under his blanket, his flashlight next to him that night. It was a story about a king who lured unicorns into his forest to hunt them. A brave little peasant had tricked the king and was about to free the unicorns when he looked up.

He heard shouting. His father. That was nothing new. Father was always shouting. It was stranger when it was quiet. But this was different somehow. Quincey bit his lip, hard. Yes, Vincent had been enraged that night. But his wasn’t the only voice he heard. Diana’s had been raised just as high. Screaming. 

Quincey had turned off his flashlight and crept down the hall. His father’s office was at the very end of the corridor. His bare feet were silent on the plush carpet. The door to Vincent’s office had been cracked that night.

With a shake of his head he put the book down and walked out of the room, following the path he had that night so many years ago. The corridor hadn’t changed much. Quincey saw that night clearly.

He had peaked into his father’s cavernous office. His mother had her back to him, two men stood closer to the door. Vincent was pacing, angry. Next to his desk a figure kneeled, a black hood over its head. Diana was crying. Broken and terrified, sobs shaking her entire frame. Vincent had stared at her with a look Quincey had never seen from his father before. For the first time in his life, he felt fear from the man who had called him “son.”

“Is the brat mine?” Vincent had growled at his mother. Diana had let out a broken sob. 

“Yes! He’s your boy, Vincent! Please. You have to believe me. He’s your son!”

“Believe a lying whore? Not likely.” Vincent fumed. Diana had stared at him, tears streaming from her eyes. Vincent glared at her. Impassive. Diana searched his face and hung her head, hands coming up to cover her eyes. Her beautiful aquamarine eyes. Vincent considered the kneeling figure on the floor. 

He snapped his fingers and one of the men stepped forward, placing something in Vincent’s outstretched hand. 

“You leave me no choice, Diana.” He said quietly and turned abruptly. Diana’s head snapped up, and she screamed.

“NO! TOMMY!” Vincent’s arm was outstretched already and the single bullet left the handgun with a odd pop sound young Quincey had never heard before. The figure on floor fell over, and didn’t move.

Quincey stopped walking and stared at his father’s office door. Mahogany and ornate. Heavy. He took a deep breath, and counted to ten. He recalled that moment, the first time he had heard a gun at such close range. Diana’s scream echoed in his mind. 

She had fallen to the floor, a wealth of diamonds glittering on her neck, on her wrists, dangling from her ears. Heavy. Gaudy. She was a trophy. 

Vincent had sneered at her, handing the gun back to his man. “What did you expect, Diana? Did you think I would let him live? Get up. Did you think I’d let him fuck you under my roof again? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Vincent pulled her to her feet roughly and snarled, one hand gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him, his blue eyes icy. “Never forget who you belong to. You’re mine, no matter who you let between your legs. You will act like a wife not a cheap slut.”

Diana had turned her wide eyes on him and he pushed her away from him, disgusted. 

What happened next was always something that Quincey knew he would never forget. He watched his mom straighten her back. She turned her head, looking at the lifeless form on the floor. Vincent had walked back behind his desk, reaching for a decanter. Diana lunged, arms outstretched, hands forming claws. Her beautiful face twisted with rage.

Vincent had looked up, surprise on his face, then annoyance and disgust. His reflexes were fast. They had only slowed a little with age. Vincent’s hand switched targets, changing from decanter to the ornate silver and jade lamp. His fingers curled around it, and he swung.

The blow landed with a loud wet crunch on the side of Diana’s head and she fell. 

The piece of jade had snapped off and soared across the room, landing a foot or so away from young Quincey’s horrified form, blood staining the pale green stone. 

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Vincent cursed and rolled her over with his foot. The two men rushed forward and touched her face and chest. 

“Is she.....?” Vincent spat. Another moment of silence and young Quincey was rooted to the spot, terror racing in his body. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

One of the men shook his head. Vincent let out a loud curse. 

“FUCK!”

He slammed his fist on the table, picked up the decanter and flung it at the wall.

“Get the trash out of this room! NOW!” He had screamed, spit flying from his mouth, eyes wild.

Young Quincey found himself running down the corridor into his own room and flung himself under his bed.

Quincey blinked up at the door in front of him. The rest of the night wasn’t clear. Sometime the next morning, late in the afternoon, a maid had come into his room and found him sleeping under his bed, clutching his panda bear. Tears had left his cheeks red.

He didn’t see his father for almost a week. When he did, Vincent had told Quincey that his mother had to “go away” for a while. That she had been sick and needed to recover. Quincey had agreed, fearfully. He didn’t ask questions when his mother didn’t recover. He didn’t say anything at the funeral. He never brought up the change in rugs in his father’s office. 

Quincey put his hand on the door handle and opened it. The office was the same. Dark, gilded cavern with objects strewn about to showcase his power. Quincey locked eyes with his father.

Vincent sat behind his desk. He wore a pleasant smile. Quincey felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Vincent snapped his fingers. Four men in suits appeared from the far right, from the hidden door behind the large bookcase. Each pair of men was guiding a struggling hooded figure. Shivering, silent. No doubt gagged. He could hear their harsh breathing. Quincey’s mouth went dry.

“Come in, Son.” Vincent purred softly. Quincey took three steps and allowed the heavy doors to swing shut behind him. Vincent nodded at the four men and they left just as silently as they came. “I wanted to talk to you tonight.”

Vincent stood up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He smiled at Quincey, and lead him, unresisting to his desk, past the hooded figures. Hands bound with thick rope, ankles and knees tied as well. Quincey glanced down at them and back at Vincent. 

“Oh?” He asked carefully. This was dangerous. This was bad. 

“Yes, my boy. See....I wanted to talk to you about family.” Vincent spoke softly. “About blood. Loyalty.” 

Blood.

Quincey swallowed and forced his eyes to stay focused. Vincent continued. 

“I know you haven’t wanted to get your hands dirty. You’ve got your.....own....business to keep running, but a time comes when a father has to make sure his son is ready to grow up. To take over one day.”

Vincent sipped the whiskey and looked over at Quincey, peering at him closely.  
“You see, this business is dangerous, boy. You need to know who is loyal. Who you can trust. And when to cull your herd. Set a example, you see.” He paused and kicked his foot into the ribs of one of the figures. The unexpected attack earned Vincent a sharp cry. The older man smiled darkly. Vincent’s tone took on one of a person prepared to lecture. “Drive out the weakness you see. But on occasion, maybe take down a buck. In case anyone gets any ideas...” he added with a snarl. “Sometimes you need to take down a strong one.....” A vicious kick to the next figure, aimed for the chest. A grunt and a hiss. 

Vincent turned, a feral, manic expression written into his face. Angry. Enraged. Quincey felt his body tense from his shoulders to his feet. Someone was crying. Was it from the people kneeling on the floor, struggling? Diana’s sobbing filled his head. A ringing sound pierced his mind as his heart raced. 

“It’s time, Son.” He hissed, no warning before his eyes glazed over with insanity. “Together. I end one. You will take the other. It’s high time you learned to be a man.”

Without warning Vincent pulled a small, elegant blade from his coat pocket and took two paces towards the figures. Quincey had seen this before. He knew what his father was going to do. 

Diana’s smiling, sad face flashed in his mind. Quincey’s body moved, quickly. He reached for the small hand gun. Tora’s words had not been in vain. He had been wearing the holster and gun for weeks now. He took aim, hands steady. 

“I’m not a man like you.” Quincey said, calmly. Vincent looked up at his words, shock registered. Quincey’s finger pulled the trigger.

A crack. 

A pop.

A muffled scream. The two hooded figures kicked and writhed on the floor. Quincey heard sobbing and curses.

Vincent fell over, glassy eyed. A dark black and red wound where his nose should be. Red staining the carpet. 

He didn’t move. His arm lowered. His head was pounding, adrenaline was racing in his veins. The world felt muffled and hazy. Silence. Only ragged breathing came from the two people on the floor.

Quincey felt his knees give out. He sank to the floor and felt his mind blank.

It was done.

He had done what he had wished he could have done all those years ago. Saved his mother. He placed the gun on the floor. His ears were ringing. Painfully.

But he had saved.....

His head snapped up and he crawled forward, sobbing and he reached he first figure, who was growling, kicking and twisting. Quincey ripped the hood off and stared into Tora’s bloodshot golden eyes.

Quincey tore the duct tape from his mouth, and as Tora spit the rag out, and let out a sob. Black hair wild and falling over his face. A odd, strawberry hair tie holding back a section of hair. Quincey’s fingers were numb. He felt himself crying, his vision blurred and he tugged at the bonds over his friend’s wrists, not untying them so much as loosening them enough for Tora to wriggle free and turn to the next person on the floor.

A moment later Quincey was cradling Poppy, her back against his chest as Tora ripped the rope binding off her, having taken the hood off already. Tears were leaking from her eyes, and Quincey slowly and gently removed her gag. His hands shook and he forced his finger to obey him. Her body shook. Quincey had known about the pair of them for a while now, keeping a careful silence, hoping their relationship would be allowed to bloom fully. Poor sweet Poppy, she never had seen the world Tora had grown in.

She had waited only a moment before she launched herself awkwardly into Tora’s arms, not waiting for her legs to be unbound. Quincey recovered enough to help untie Tora’s legs wordlessly, and then Poppy, still unsure. Still numb. 

Poppy’s cries were not slowing down, and Quincey still couldn’t speak. If he hadn’t felt so sick he probably would have been sobbing just as hard. The poor girl didn’t deserve this sort of terror in her life. It was Tora who took charge.

“Come over here, Quincey” he said gruffly, he stood, cradling Poppy in his arms. He lifted her up then moved away from Vincent’s body. Quincey staggered after him. 

When Quincey was young, and Tora had just come into the Clan, he had confided what he had seen happen to his mother to the strange new kid. Tora had listened and didn’t say anything. He was the only other soul Quincey had spoken to. The young boys had kept the secret, never speaking of it afterwards.

“Wasn’t sure you had listened to me.” Tora said harshly, voice strained. Poppy’s sobs were coming in bursts now. Quincey leaned against the desk, fighting the twisting pain in his stomach. 

He had killed Vincent. 

He was gone.

Dead.

Oh God....

“I’m sorry.” Tora whispered, he looked at Quincey with wild amber eyes. Registering just how close things had been. Just how close he came to dying. To Poppy dying. Quincey nodded, the weight of what was happening hitting him like a train.

“I don’t know.....what I need to do.” He mumbled. “I didn’t think....” He felt sick. His body felt feverish and cold all at the same time. 

“I know.” Tora answered, one hand resting on the back of Poppy’s head, holding her face against him, keeping her from seeing Vincent’s body.

“You’re next in line.” Tora added. “You’re going to have to take over. If....if we are going to survive....this.” The words were strained, unsure. 

“I don’t know.” Quincey replied. He took a shaking breath in. “How long do we have?”

“Maybe 2 more minutes.”

Quincey nodded. He had to do this. He couldn’t let something happy to Tora....or Poppy. His family.

He closed his eyes. His mother. He could do this. He could make sure his family was safe.

“I need you to help me.” He whispered urgently to Tora. His friend nodded once and whispered softly into Poppy’s ear. Her sobbing slowed and she turned a blotchy, wet face to Quincey and nodded too.

“I promise you both I won’t let harm come to you.” Quincey swore. “I’ll do whatever I need to do. I just....I....”

There was a knock on the door behind the staircase and Quincey allowed himself a single moment. He thought of his mother. Her eyes. Her laugh. Her life.

Tora watched his friend stand up straight, flex his shoulders and assume a commanding posture. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the door and the men who walked into the room. 

Quincey breathed in, and faced his future.

Epilogue 

Quincey Balthuman sat behind his desk. The view from his corner office was breathtaking at sunset and his day was nearly over. 

It had been six years. Quincey stood and stretched, taking in Narin city’s lights. He had windows lining three of his four walls and his office wasn’t a cave draped in velvet and gold. It was high in the sky, with warmth and light flowing in.

It had been a long six years. Vincent’s death had left a void open in the underground and it was only Quincey’s last name and Tora’s brutal efficiency that had stifled any questions of who now held the power in Narin.

But.....

But he wasn’t Vincent. 

He would never be Vincent. 

He was Diana’s son.

It was her eyes that watched the sky dance with color 50 stories above the ground in a glass and steel tower. Aquamarine orbs, reflecting a rosy, open, endless sky. Quincey wondered what she would have thought.

He had seized the reigns Vincent had dropped when that bullet entered his skull and he had not let go. But things had changed.

Not overnight. That wasn’t possible, but turning The Balthuman Organization into what it masqueraded as before was difficult. Oddly enough, it was Poppy who had figured out a solution. She had called a certain Mr. Lam. Quincey had sat down in a quiet little hole in the wall sushi place with the tiny old man and discussed business while Tora and Poppy sat nearby, bickering quietly with Alice.

In the end, it had taken roughly three years. Three years to turn all the restaurants, clubs and fronts into functional businesses. Quincey was turning a massive profit. Gyu helped him keep track of the numbers, and he had finally convinced him to quit all of his jobs and become full time staff. Gyu now had a nice studio to call his own and a savings account with six figures. 

He had turned the old compound into a outreach center, taking in at risk children. Gold gilded trinkets removed or sold. The walls had color. New trees planted on the grounds, flowerbeds were riots of color in all seasons. That had been his biggest pride. He worked closely with local law enforcement. They were still wary, but things had changed for the better. Social services knew who to call if they needed a safe place for a family.

He was still writing. He was a storyteller at heart, just like his mother. Erdene, lovely woman that she was, had become his publicist. Jacob ran his social media. The businesses ran in the hands of people he trusted and Tora still oversaw his security. Poppy was his editor and personal advisor. She really had a eye for details. 

Good thing he was taking her out shopping in a hour. Tora had a small box he didn’t want her to see until tonight, and Poppy’s keen eyes were sure to spot it. Tora’s pants were too tight to hide it. Well, it was about damn time. 

Quincey hoped she liked platinum and diamonds. Tora had picked out the ring, of course, but Quincey had helped. 

There was a knock at his door and Tora opened it, allowing Poppy to burst into his office bringing her laughter and light. His friend smiled a real smile, soft, warm. 

“Let’s go!” Poppy sang, alight with the sheer joy of living. Tora shot him a grateful look. Silly Tiger was probably barely holding it together.

If the answer was yes, and Quincey had no reason to believe it would be otherwise, he had a gift for the couple, and his fingers curled around the key in his pocket. 

A old summer home on the beach. Quincey had no use for it. But maybe.....maybe Tora and Poppy would make it a home? 

Quincey laughed, taking Poppy’s hand and twirling her once as she giggled and Tora watched in amusement. Together they walked out of the office, Quincey satisfied his family would have a happy ending.


End file.
